by Jack Whyte
Her immediate reaction was to draw into herself, seeking to make herself smaller, catching her breath and willing her pounding heart to be still while she thrust her skirts down and tucked them about her to cover her nakedness from her own eyes and all others. Then, once she had made herself as small and inconspicuous as she could, she sat huddled and motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, waiting to be discovered.
The two men below were speaking very quickly and were keeping their voices low, but Nemo recognized one of them, and soon her curiosity overcame her fear completely. Slowly, being careful to make no noise, she sat up straight and leaned cautiously outward, bracing herself against one of the limbs that formed her seat as she scanned the space below. Sure enough, directly beneath her so that she could see him but not his companion. King Uric Pendragon stood, silent now, supporting his jaw with the ball of one thumb as he smoothed the tip of his right index finger down the length of his thick moustache to his chin.
Uric jerked his head and released a tightly suppressed sigh, expelling it so loudly that the sound carried to Nemo's perch far above him, and when he spoke, his voice held that indescribable tightness that betrayed reluctant acceptance of the inevitable.
"Very well, then, I'll grant that you're right. What's done is done, and there's nothing we can do to undo it. He might have been killed, but he wasn't. He came to no harm, and for that we should be grateful. Well, I am, and may the gods take note of it. But I would still like to take my boot to his arse and to Whistler's, too—" He held up his hand, palm outward, to forestall his companion's response.
"I know, I know, I've heard your arguments on Whistler's side of it. But if I've learned one thing as a King, it's this: responsibility defines itself and always rests most heavily on those who earn and hold it. You know that too, because it's part and parcel of your priestly code, hammered into you since you were old enough to understand what you were hearing. And if you believe in that, then you must also believe that in every man's life there must come a time when he is seen and acknowledged to accept responsibility for those things, those duties, that are his alone. Garreth Whistler has failed me, at least in this. I had thought better of him."
"Uric, that is untrue and unjust, and you know it."
Nemo guessed that the other speaker must be the Chief Druid, Daris, one of the King's most trusted Councillors. Now she leaned forward even farther, risking her balance in the attempt to see. As she did so, however, Daris saved her from further danger and discomfort by stepping out towards Uric, into the light. Uther's father, in the meantime, had folded his arms upon his breast, cocking his head at the priest's protest.
"Garreth Whistler has no control over Uther, Uric. He cannot jerk him to heel like a half-trained dog, and you would not have it otherwise. What would you? How could he control him? How could anyone? The boy is your son and Ullic's grandson! He's a Pendragon, and since when has a Pendragon firstborn been answerable to anyone in Cambria? By the gods, Uric, be honest! If Uther were weak enough to permit anyone to control him, you would have been casting about long before now to father a replacement for him. Look me in the eye and deny it."
Uric Pendragon made no attempt to deny it. He merely turned his head and gazed into the distance.
"Whistler has done wonders for the boy, Uric, and I know it better than anyone. Uther will be Chief one day, perhaps even King, and so I watch him closely. Garreth was charged—-your own father charged him personally—with teaching the boy to be a warrior worthy of his name, and by the blood of every Druid ever killed in Britain, I say he has done that superlatively well. Your son, at fifteen, is a warrior, superb in all respects, and now he can boast three more dead men to adorn his name even before he assumes his formal manhood."
"Unarmed men." King Uric's voice was a growl.
"Unarmed or not, the men are dead, and that's done with. Besides, I was talking of Garreth Whistler, not of Uther's escapade.
"It was no part of Garreth's duty that he himself should become a horse warrior. He is the King's Champion, the flower of his people—our people. But Uther spends much time in Camulod and so, therefore, does Garreth Whistler. Uther is besotted with the Camulodian cavalry and must, perforce, become a mounted Camulodian trooper. Whistler, much as he might dislike that thought, sees nonetheless that the young Uther can never be a mere trooper. As your son he must command, and so he must be taught to be a commander of cavalry. It follows, therefore, to Garreth Whistler's logic and loyalty, that he, himself, must become a mounted trooper in order to learn those things that he must teach, in turn, to the boy who is his charge."
Daris paused again, and the King stood silent, waiting for him to resume. Far above their heads, Nemo sat back down again and made herself more comfortable.
"So—" Daris's voice was quiet now, but every syllable carried clearly up to Nemo "—we may not speak ill, or even think ill, of Garreth Whistler, you and I. He has given up more than either of us in the service of our young heir, for in relinquishing the honour of being King's Champion he has forfeited much. He has almost become a foreigner, mounted upon a foreign horse and carrying foreign weapons. He has learned to speak a foreign tongue. He is still greatly loved, and rightly so, but there are some, envious and disgruntled, who yet whisper that he has become an alien among his own family and people . . . and all for his selfless and total dedication to the duty we have put upon him."
"What are you saying, priest?"
"I am saying that Garreth Whistler deserves your full gratitude and no trace of anger or dissatisfaction. And I am saying that he could no more control young Uther's impulsiveness in the grip of angry emotions than you could. Uther is a hothead, sudden and volatile and violent—always has been—and you and I have quarrelled over that before, when it was you who said it and I who disagreed with you out of too much fondness for the boy. Uther has always had that tendency to be headstrong and sudden. I believe that there is simply a well of violence simmering in the boy and likely to break surface at any moment when he is crossed severely enough to stir up his passions."
"Hmm." The King was silent for a time, and then he grunted again and nodded his head. "I agree with you. The boy is far too hot-tempered for his own good. But would you agree with me if I told you that I have noticed—and Garreth Whistler backs me in this—that he seems to respond well to responsibility that extends beyond himself?"
"I don't know if I would or not. What are you saying?"
"The boy does well when he is put in command of a situation. Set him to a task and explain to him what's involved and what depends on the outcome, and he'll do it conscientiously and well, without allowing himself to be distracted until the job is completed. Would you agree?"
There was a long pause, and then Daris responded, nodding his head. "You're right. He sticks with his task until he has acquitted himself completely of all responsibilities, and only then will he allow himself to be lured into other, more pleasurable things. At times like that he never allows himself to be distracted or seduced away from what he has to do and never allows his emotions to take control of him."
"Good. Then I think I might have the answer to his hotheadedness. An ongoing task, a large responsibility. One that only he can handle."
"At fifteen?" There was heavy skepticism in the Druid's tone, but the King ignored it completely.
"There could be no better age. Do you remember the story Publius Varrus told you the last time you and he were here at the same time of how it fell to Uther and Cay to teach the troops of Camulod how to sit in a saddle and control a horse with stirrups? And the boys were, what, eight years old at the time?"
"Yes, but they—"
"But nothing, Daris! They did it because they were the only two in the entire place who could use the single saddle that Camulod possessed. The thing had been sitting there in plain view for years before the boys were born, and no one had even suspected what it was. Varrus had captured it from some Franks taken in a raid years earlier and kept it as a keepsake, thinkin
g it to be some kind of chair fashioned for a crippled boy. But it was a new form of weapon, a saddle with stirrups, made to fit a boy's legs. They never thought to see it as a thing a full-grown man might use, and so they saw nothing until young Cay grew into it and showed them how it should be used."
The High Priest nodded. "I remember that. I was impressed, but I fail to see—"
"Cay taught Uther how to ride in that saddle, Daris, immediately after he himself had learned to, because the two of them were of a size. And they became, in very fact, the first of Camulod's cavalry troopers. But they achieved it simply because their youth, their size, gave them the ability to do so. They had the equipment, while the others, fully grown men, had to wait until their saddles could be developed and manufactured. That was less than eight years ago, Daris, but Camulod is strong with cavalry today. So here is my idea. And hear me out, if you will, before you seek to undermine my logic with any argument. . .
"Camulod is hungry for our new Pendragon longbows. We now have more than a hundred, with several hundred more in various stages of completion. Camulod has uses for our bows, and to give our friends their due, they have never tried to buy the bows alone. They know the value of the weapons to us and the difficulties involved in not only producing them—growing the wood and then curing and shaping it before each weapon can be made—but also in the training of men to use them. So they are prepared to use our people and their bows, and to reward us handsomely for the use of our superior weaponry. Do you agree with what I have said so far?"
"Of course."
"Good. Now I propose that it is time for what the Romans called a quid pro quo, a giving in return for a gift."
"And what might that be?" Daris was smiling.
"A benefit to us in Cambria from their superior weaponry."
"Their—you mean their cavalry?"
"No . . . ours."
The Chief Druid pushed back his high cowl and scratched his head. "Forgive me, Uric, I must be misunderstanding something very simple. What do you mean?"
Uric let out a single, booming grunt of laughter. "I mean the answer to our problem with young Uther's hotheadedness: responsibility. Look, he travels every year between here and Camulod, there and back, no? Always with Garreth Whistler, but sometimes they travel with young Cay in tow, too, and when that happens there is usually an escort of some kind to ride with them from Camulod. Sometimes—most times, in fact—the escort is not really an escort but a military expedition of one kind or another, perhaps a patrol that would be travelling this way even if the boys were not.
"But now we find ourselves approaching a new kind of difficulty. In the past, the boys were merely boys, and they were travelling through our own lands, so they were in little danger—certainly no danger that Garreth Whistler could not handle with or without a military escort. Today, however, everything has changed. My son rides over a rise, finds an assault in progress and reacts predictably. He flies out of control and leaps into the middle of what might have been a disaster. I believe, nevertheless, that had he been in command of a body of troops, responsible for them, he would have reacted differently. I believe he would not have risked his life under those circumstances."
Daris said nothing and Uric continued. "Besides, the men he attacked today were vermin, but they were our own vermin and harmless enough, overall. It might not always be so. We no longer have the control that we used to have over our territories. There are invaders everywhere nowadays, and the risks of travel, any kind of travel, are far higher than they were even a few years ago."
The silence that followed this statement was so prolonged that Uric himself was forced to break it.
"Well? You disagree?"
"No, not at all." Daris's response came from a deep well of thought. "No, I'm merely trying to think through and beyond what you said. Are you suggesting that we approach Camulod to give Uther command of a cavalry troop?"
"No, I am saying that Uther should have a guard of his own."
"Of Camulodians?"
"No, Daris. Of Cambrians—Pendragon volunteers, trained and fully equipped with arms and horses—in Camulod. A King's Guard, my Guard, commanded by Uther as my appointee, with Garreth Whistler as his right arm. Camulod will be happy to accede to our wishes, for it will be to their ultimate advantage to have allied cavalry in place here, and besides, in return we'll increase our commitment to them in terms of men and bows."
Daris gazed at the King, and his entire face lit up slowly with admiration and approval as the various benefits of such a move occurred to him one after the other.
"Uric," he murmured eventually, "I have always been a dutiful and admiring Councillor . . . most of the time, anyway . . . and I have always marvelled, since I grew old enough to see and appreciate such subtleties, at the foresight and capacity for long-range planning that you and your father share, but this . . . this is incomparable! This is magnificent! We have no need for heavy horses in our mountains, but their presence—disciplined cavalry here in the lowlands—would be a great asset. It would make a massive difference to everything we do. No invader is insane enough, I think, to attack us in our hills, but anyone thinking of attacking us down here would have to think twice, knowing that we have fast-moving cavalry. Were I not a priest, I would be prepared to split a skin of wine with you in simple admiration and celebration of the brilliance of this sole idea."
Uric the King stood back and looked at him. then nodded. "Excellent. That's as it should be . . . but we'll be drinking mead, for you know damned well we have had no wine to speak of since the Romans left, other than what we've scrounged from Camulod."
Nemo sat silent in her perch, watching the two men as they left the confines of the sacred grove. She had not understood everything they said, but she had understood enough to know that they would soon begin recruiting volunteers for Uther's new Guard of Camulodian-style troopers. And she knew enough, too, to understand that if she moved quickly, presenting her case carefully and clearly to Garreth Whistler, she might win access to this new corps. She was a woman, certainly, but women had always borne weapons in Celtic society, and no woman had ever been denied the right to fight beside her friends and loved ones. No competent woman, indeed, had ever been denied the rank of warrior.
The following morning, shortly after sunrise. Nemo was waiting on Garreth Whistler's doorstep to catch him as he emerged. When he did, she faced him squarely, knowing that he was unlikely to have heard already about Uric's plan. She was blunt and straightforward as always, incapable of making any attempt to be obscure or to appear mysterious. She simply told Garreth Whistler that she wanted to ride with Uther as a mounted trooper. If ever there should be a call to arms for volunteers among the warriors of Cambria, she said, to form a corps of cavalry about the King under the command of the Prince Uther, Garreth Whistler should remember that her name had been presented first and foremost.
Whistler listened to her, his eyebrows raised in good-humoured puzzlement, but then he smiled and promised her that he would bear her request in mind from that day forth. Satisfied, she grunted her thanks and then disappeared into one of the narrow lanes that surrounded Whistler's residence.
By that afternoon, Whistler had received direct instructions from King Uric to call for a muster of volunteers to ride with Uther Pendragon and form a King's Guard of cavalry. Uric had no doubt that Camulod would concur with his wishes in this—he knew how badly they wanted access to his bowmen and their weaponry—and he already considered his new cavalry force to be a reality.
Whistler nodded and accepted his instructions with a slightly bemused look on his face, but Nemo's was the first name he inscribed on his mental list of personnel. It never occurred to him to question the young woman's fitness for the task, for he had long since come to admire her solid strength and her unquestioning loyalty to Uther in all the young man did, and he knew he would find many others among the volunteers, all of them men, who would pose him far greater problems than Nemo ever would. He merely wondered in p
assing how Nemo had gained her foreknowledge of what was happening.
The new Guard was formed quickly, with more volunteers than there were posts available, and shortly thereafter Nemo and her new companions were plunged into a period of frantic and intensive training that culminated six long weeks later in a series of tests involving both disciplined drills and skills, as well as hard demonstrations of physical achievement and prowess.
Nemo was unsurprised that she won her place among the men, but she held it jealously, competing chin to chin with males of her own age and older, defying all of them and drilling, training, working overtime to deny them the opportunity and the pleasure of besting her in anything she tried. She graduated from training ahead of all of them, winning from Uther's own hand the Roman rank of decurion, or squadron leader, before they ever left to travel to Camulod.
By the end of the first month of harsh competition. Nemo's squadron mates had stopped resenting the fact that she was female. Around the same time, after several bruising fights in which Nemo had inflicted much pain and grief in sudden, violent shows of disinclination, they had also stopped trying to bed her. By the time they left for Camulod to begin their real training, however. Nemo had achieved her greatest triumph over her messmates: they had come to regard her as an absolute equal and had forgotten, by and large, that she was a woman. They called her Hard-Nose, saying it with respect, and Nemo found it infinitely preferable to the Toad. She marched out of camp proudly, her mind filled with the vision of King Uric himself saluting her and her mates. Ahead of her, filling her vision with the splendour of his gold-embroidered military cloak and his great Roman helmet with its high, crimson crest, Uther Pendragon rode proudly on his enormous chestnut horse, accompanied by Garreth Whistler. Behind him marched all his new King's Guard.
